


Parkour Angel

by Liondragon (Sameshima_Shuzumi)



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Acrobatic Kissing, Canon Divergence - Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Canon-Typical Violence, Corny jokes, Dorks in Love, Fluff, Happy Ending, Happy Steve Rogers, Love Clocks Steve Rogers on the Noggin, M/M, Minor Injuries, Parkour, Period-Typical Internet, Riley Lives, Riley Lives (Captain America movies), Riley is a Good Bro, Social Media, Steve Rogers Falls, acrobatic sex, job hunting, the personal is political
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-01
Updated: 2018-11-01
Packaged: 2019-08-08 13:49:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16430597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sameshima_Shuzumi/pseuds/Liondragon
Summary: At 5:41 in the morning, an angel falls through the window of Steve Rogers's DC apartment.





	Parkour Angel

**Author's Note:**

> It's about damn time I wrote of the pure meet-cute love that is Sam/Steve. Y'all know fluff doesn't come easy for me, so I hope I do them proud. Actually, uh, since this is a divergence from _Winter Soldier_ , and 2014, it does get really real. Gravity bites.
> 
> Started in 2017. Unauthorized duplication and distribution prohibited. Film and properties from which this diverges do not belong to me, this is not an endorsement of canon. Sweet gehenna, do not try this without proper training and supervision. I've never even had a Red Bull.  
> There's a television channel (televison???! what is!1!!) that runs trending internet content like it's MTV in the 80's all over again, and carries the bonus of preventing me from rabbit-holing in the tubes (I do that ... elsewhere). They showed a lot of this. I watched a lot of this. When I got this idea, Steve was going to be super smooth. Then I tried to write it, and realized without the benefit of pre-planning, Steve Rogers is what we in the business call a ginormous dork.

At 5:41 in the morning, an angel falls through the window of Steve Rogers's DC apartment.

"FUCK!"

Steve abandons his Sadness Oatmeal and dashes into his dainty bathroom with the period-authentic tile. Before SHIELD, he'd never had a bathroom this big. He couldn't have afforded tiles this fancy.

And he's never been lucky enough to have anyone this gorgeous land on them.

Alarmingly laid out flat.

"Are you injured," Steve says, instead of any one of the dozens of smooth pick-up lines that would've tripped off Bucky's lips. 

(Two months later, he will sit up in bed and cry out: _Heaven must've run out of room!_ He will be whapped with a throw pillow.)

"Shit, dude," says the angel.

Steve starts forward, forgets he's holding the shield, and nearly dents his period-authentic door jamb. He could drop the shield, but he can't figure out what the guy is wearing. It could be special ops, or special ops trying not to look like special ops so badly that Natasha spits, but the colors are so bright. Like the guy's eyes. His shoes are what Steve can now discern as _cool_. They're heavily scuffed, faintly friction-burned, and Steve is staring at them so he doesn't... stare. Rudely.

"Who leaves their window open at five in the morning!" exclaims the angel from the bathroom floor. "Why!?"

"To take the air," says Steve.

"The fuck," comes the complaint. He's checking himself, muscle group by muscle group, and Steve is relieved and flustered when he wriggles to check his spine.

Steve offers his hand. The angel takes it with a cool, strong grip wrapped in fingerless gloves just as scuffed as the shoes. He sits up. Twists around in a way that makes Steve's mouth go dry — it's a movement thing, it's graceful, the way Steve liked the boxers who danced on the mat, and despised the prizefighters who chopped like dull cleavers. ("It's called flow, my man," he will be told later.)

"And who," growls his seraphic drop-in, "hangs up athletic shirts out to dry on a windowsill!?" He peels one off his bare calf. "I could've broken my neck!"

"Sorry," Steve says. He snatches it away. "Are you okay?"

"Broke my fall on the toilet seat, and the sink edge. I'm not a... burglar, by the way."

 _No, you're an angel,_ Steve thinks and does not say. "I wasn't worried," he says.

"Apparently not," says the angel. "Sam Wilson," he says, offering his hand again.

 _He has a name,_ Steve thinks. _You have a name!_ Steve does not say. 

"Steve. Steve Rogers." He hauls him up; though Sam looks lean, every muscle is taut and solid. Perspiration makes his skin gleam.

Steve remembers to let go of his hand.

"I figured," says Sam Wilson, with a wry grin and a nod at the shield. "I guess you don't have to worry about leaving your windows open."

"Guessed wrong, if you've," Steve gestures vaguely, "You're here." _You're here!_ Sam is still grinning. Steve does not know what to do. His bathroom is now very, very tiny. That grin is very, very bright.

"Tell your girlfriend I'm sorry for dropping in," says Sam.

Steve can't figure out what he means. "Uh," he says.

Sam's eyes bulge. "Those shirts are yours!?"

"Yes," says Steve.

"Those are a ladies' medium!"

"They fit fine!" Steve is agog. "And how do you know I'd have a girl? Friend," he adds.

"Your toilet seat is down!"

They stare at each other, as though they have both encountered a miraculous specimen of humanity, and are respectively trying to figure out the physics of flying into a three-story window with no fire escape, and of squeezing all those pectorals into a training shirt from the petites section.

With an effort, Steve gathers himself. "How did you even get up here?"

_Did you fly?_

"I flew," says Sam Wilson.

Steve is staggered.

"Naw, man," and here is the grin again, and how is Steve supposed to handle this much divine intervention? "You ever heard of parkour?"

*

They have coffee.

Steve knows what 'coffee' means, but they're having coffee first and therefore everything is backwards, so Steve focuses on making coffee and not on the way the rising sun glances off Sam's cheekbones.

"It's free running," says Sam. "If you wanna get technical. Parkour is efficient motion through an environment. Usually an urban space. Free running is... freestyle. Freedom. You know." Steve watches Sam stop himself from making a Captain America joke, and his heart sinks, a little. On the other hand, Sam did stop.

"Art," says Steve.

Sam lights up.

Steve wants to hold his hand.

"It _is_ flying," Sam says. "It's the closest thing I can get to it," and Steve's insides feel like a Frank Capra movie as Sam explains how his government program was cut, and _he lost his wings_. 

"That why you're wearing a bulletproof vest?" asks Steve.

Sam rolls his eyes. "It's Army surplus. Brother starts dashing around rooftops, most folks don't think _parkour_."

Steve is an idiot. "Sorry. So that's why the early hour?"

"I like the sunrise," says Sam. 

"Still sounds," Steve stops himself.

"I'm usually out there with Riley," says Sam. (Steve will never admit out loud how much his heart dips.) "But Riley's the fool who tried a double kong where there was only space for one, so he's out with a broken leg."

"He's your..."

"Wingman," says Sam. "Aw, you've got the same worried freckle-nosed wrinkle thing. You make it look cute, though," and Steve's heart soars. "It's alright, I wear a Go Pro."

"Camera," says Steve Rogers. "Oh. I thought it was a Bluetooth." 

He can't keep his voice from going flat.

Sam frowns. "Damn, I forgot all about it. Didn't mean to invade your privacy, for real." And he's flushing. Steve is charmed. "Here, I'll delete today's run. You have a laptop? Or if that's not secure, I think I can do it from a regular tv. You have a television, right?"

Steve finally gets his words together. "No," he says. "That's okay. Could we watch it?"

*

"Oh my God!" Steve bursts out.

Sam laughs. "I know you go harder than this."

The camera is artifically steady, and the serum corrects his internal balance faster, but Steve is getting dizzy. "I'm in my body when I— fuck, watch the, fuck, chimney, shit!"

Sam laughs harder. "Not gonna lie, you make me feel like a superhero."

"Thought you were an angel," says Steve. "You are not going to make that jump, Sam, holy fuck!"

(He doesn't remember saying it.)

*

Steve Rogers falls hard.

*

"Dude," says Riley. He points a crutch. "Sam's right. Just because you're a supersoldier doesn't mean you should be falling wrong."

"Ten more dive rolls," says Sam from where he's crouching.

Steve gets back up. Flexes his butt cheeks because he knows Sam's watching.

"Can we go up yet?" Steve wheedles.

Sam raises that brow. "We cannot keep this under wraps if we pancake Captain America."

"I found you this warehouse," says Steve.

"I'll give you the superior sneaking skills," says Sam. "Don't tell me: Steve Rogers got picked up for B&E back in Brooklyn."

"We called 'em second-story jobs. And who says I got caught?"

Sam grins.

*

Steve puts a no-slip rug on his bathroom tiles. He dries his shirts on the bedframe.

Sam comes in through the bathroom window every Tuesday and Thursday. ("I'll play you this _one_ song if you promise to move the Beatles to the bottom of the list.") Steve meets up with him and Riley on weekends, after extracting a promise from Natasha that SHIELD drop surveillance.

They spend a lot of time stretching. With great care and deliberation.

Steve buys yoga pants a size too small.

If that's not enough, he's looking for the perfect pair of shoes.

If Natasha's reporting on him, she's probably saying he's accepted the pervasive nature of retail culture.

*

Steve is amazing at wall runs.

He annoys Sam and Riley by pronouncing all the terminology with academy-perfect French. 

"Stop memorizing the textbook, Steve," says Sam. "This is improvising. _Freedom_."

"Emphasis on free," says Riley. (He refuses to let Steve pay for his medical bills. "The VA picks it up, eventually. And that'll be a negative for Sammy," he adds knowingly.)

Steve is less amazing at throwing himself into small openings.

"You make it look so easy," Steve complains from the shrubbery around the parking garage.

Sam looms over him. The sky is a radiant blue backdrop. "Good move breaking your fall. Next time, don't use your face."

Steve is having the _greatest time_.

*

One night, when Steve can't sleep, he calls Sam. He immediately thinks this is a bad idea, and then Sam picks up.

"Hey, man. I was just headed out."

"Now?" Steve gapes. It's nowhere near sunrise. There's not even a full moon.

"I'll meet you there."

This time, Sam swoops in with a pair of red-tinted goggles. "Night vision and a limited heat map. We scrapped it together from parts online, but Riley doesn't like going out at night."

"I can watch your back. Serum," explains Steve. He licks his dry lips.

"A'ight. Let's go, then," and Sam offers his hand.

They don't ask why the other can't sleep. They just slip out into the night and _run_.

It really is like flying.

*

He was in the middle of explaining that it was breaking and entering their own apartment because Steve had lost track of the spare key again.

"When we were kids," says Steve, "in the summertime when it got too hot, the whole neighborhood would sit out on the roof. Make tents out of clotheslines and wet towels. On our own, me and Bucky hadda work in the heat. We didn't know we had it so good."

Riley and Sam say nothing. Their nights were cold in the desert.

Sam climbs a drain spout for a better view. No one sees the rooftops but them. No one else has it this good.

*

Steve nearly brains himself trying to flip over a metal railing.

Since they were practicing, the helmet took most of the blow, but Steve is still twitterpated when Sam jumps on top of him and starts yelling.

Steve stares up at Sam with a goofy smile and cartoon birds circling his skull.

Sam taps along his jawline, assessing for an injury.

"Hey angel," murmurs Steve. (Allegedly. The audio gets muted to bleep out Sam's swearing.)

*

Riley encrypts a flash drive just for Steve's fails. Ten years ago in Steve Rogers time, he would've been incensed. Now it's like parades and all-night dances to be treated like one of the guys, and not this stick-in-the-mud named Captain America.

And after each of those falls, Steve has a picture-perfect memory of Sam leaning over him and checking him out.

So to speak.

"Man, I don't get you," says Sam. "You're good, really good, but when you fail, you fail so hard."

"Word," says Riley. They exchange ironic fistbumps.

"You're not doing it on purpose, right?" says Sam sternly.

"No!" says Steve, shaken out of his reverie. The tumble over the air conditioning unit had been worthy of a vaudeville act. He'd been thinking of career options. "No, of course not. Why would you...?"

Riley points out, "You're the one doing those jumps without a parachute." 

Steve shakes his head. "I'm just..." he gestures at himself, suddenly at a loss for words.

Sam sits up. "It's your body."

"What?" Steve squeaks.

"How long have you had this body? For you, not counting the ice?"

No one's ever asked Steve Rogers for ... his time of day. "Five years, I suppose."

"It takes a toddler longer than that to master coordination," says Sam. "Don't be too hard on yourself."

Sam is so smart.

"The concrete will take care of it for you," Sam finishes.

Sam is an asshole.

Steve is besotted.

"If I ever get myself declassified," says Steve, "Entirely. We are putting those up on a Captain America Fail channel."

"Dude," says Riley. "That'll be sick."

(Much later, he edits a compilation of Sam checking Steve out. For private viewing. Not all of these clips are medical in nature.)

*

It turns out Sam and Riley are actually giving thought to the physics of Steve's body. "You're not accident-prone," Sam insists.

"You're running too fast," Riley pronounces.

That makes sense. It's about center of gravity, but at higher velocities, not even Steve can correct in time, and freerunning does not involve declaring war on every window, door, and poorly welded scaffold. He's not a chopper; he's a bulldozer.

"It's not an op, Steve," says Sam gently. 

Steve is glum. "Yeah. I'm sorry."

"We came up with something," says Sam. He grins. It is the sun; it is hot like burning. The glumness disperses like fog. "In combat, you always have the shield? Throwing it forces you to slow down. So the good news is, you're probably not gonna eat catwalk on a mission."

"You want me to run with the shield?" Steve brings the shield to the start of every run, and they've all eyed it covetously. But the shield is too recognizable. It also has nothing to do with ... _fun_.

"I want you," says Sam — Steve thinks, _yes yes yes_ — "to run with a camera."

*

It ought to be harder, dashing at top speed on an uneven surface, blindly backwards and torqued to the side, while steadying an expensive gizmo. (The newsreel crews could spend hours setting up a shot, with or without shelling. Steve presses 'record' and starts running.) Yet Steve is a natural. 

The objective prevents him from running flat-out, willynilly, makes him focus on the terrain because this is Sam's run, not his. It's like... letting loose the shield, letting a part of him go where his own body can't. It could never be passive: snatching a mental map of the space while he swings and flings himself through it. Sam fills the viewfinder, dodging and twisting and throwing his body like he's trusting the air to catch him, and Steve's never been able to learn the steps, but this is like dancing on air.

They yell at him when he makes a ten foot jump over open air without looking. Except Steve reviews the footage, and there's Sam. Never stopping. Never missing a step. For all that Steve runs blind, Sam flips headfirst into deadly risk, collisions that never touch him, a return to earth that feels optional.

All Steve has to do is keep pace with Sam's unfaltering rhythm, and the serum compensates for the rest.

All he has to do is trust Sam; and he's flying.

*

"Teach me how to edit a video?" Steve begs Riley. He has a gift certificate to a sneakers store in his backpocket, just in case.

After a quarter of an hour, Riley nearly loses the gum he's chewing. "Oh my God, I'm helping Captain America make a mix tape."

Steve is too intent on the screen to ask for a glossary. Strains of Marvin Gaye are leaking out of his one flipped headphone. "Now how do you remove the color? And then put it back."

" _Dude_ ," says Riley.

*

Sam is not impressed by the video when he finds out Riley got new kicks and he didn't.

"We could go to the store, and pick something out...?" Steve is backing up.

He trips on a tuft of grass in the middle of the parking lot.

Sam snickers.

Steve is mortified, sprawled flat on his ass, until Sam once more leans over him to pick him up. 

"My treat?" Steve manages to squeak out. He shoots a glance over at Riley, who is wearing a 'You're on your own, loverboy' look on his face.

"You wanna treat me, come with to the Mall and help me plot a run at the Lincoln Memorial."

Steve will hang on to the chance with his fingernails. "You want me to film?"

He gets the feeling Sam knows exactly what he's trying to do, and he's messing with him. Steve is discovering why the 21st century calls it a _crush_.

"Naw," says Sam, in that meltingly mellow tone, the one that's got a bite underneath. "I want you around to talk the rangers out of detaining me."

"I'm out," says Riley helpfully. "You rulebreakers have fun."

*

"No, _my_ left, not your left!" Sam's annoyed but laughing.

Steve gets the shot anyway.

(He sits on the steps while Sam has a quiet moment on the steps. The sun's escaping a smear of clouds on the horizon. A warm hand falls on his shoulder. He looks up.)

*

"Look at you," Sam says in awe. He hands the tablet to Steve; it's Riley's footage, the angle that Steve thought was ridiculous. Why record the cameraman? But with Sam beaming at him proudly, Steve feels the buoyancy sweep through his body like a giant hand's lifted him by the straps of his tank top. "That little sidewinder step, and then you hopped over the pipes from flat ground, all going backward. And the camera stayed steady. That's top tier, Steve. That's what youtubers do when they go professional."

"You think?" Steve says shyly.

"You could film a skate tournament, for sure," says Sam. "I guess you could do that all day, no breaks."

 _I could watch you all day,_ thinks Steve. For a second he imagines doing this all the time instead of playing janitor for Nick Fury. He imagines watching Sam fling himself at the sky, painting with his moving images, all day long. The thought rushes at him like an obstacle he can't decide he should vault or bounce. He says, instead, "I wanna do a wall run."

"A'ight." Sam smiles, doesn't question at all that Steve's already run ten miles today, that Steve simply can't sit still when he's walking on air. "Race you there!"

"No fair, I was tying my shoes!"

*

Five stories and fifteen feet up, Sam kisses him while he planks off a radio antenna. 

Steve's laughing, barely feeling the strain of supporting his whole weight, horizontally, like gravity's lost all meaning. Sam's touching his cheek. "Wait, wait," Steve giggles, and flexes his abs till his whole lower body is undulating.

"What the fuck!" Sam yells. "Get down from there...!"

"American flag," Steve says proudly. Then he breaks into laughter again.

"You are gonna hurt yourself, would you just, how did I even fall for you!" Sam says, grabbing for his hips like he can reel him to the ground.

Steve's head is in the clouds. "I left my bathroom window open," he answers.

"Shut up and get over here so I can kiss you again," Sam grouses. But he's smiling, he's smiling, he's still smiling when Steve returns to him.

*

Steve has half a second to wonder if they're moving a little fast, then Sam jumps him. Literally.

Sam gapes at him, his legs wrapped around Steve's waist, all ten fingertips hooked on Steve's shoulder like a concrete ledge. "What...!"

"Uh?" Steve has forgotten where to put his hands. Where he put his tongue. Is it okay to put his tongue...?

Sam leans back and shoves at him with his whole body.

Steve stays where he is.

Sam's legs wrap around him tighter, and Steve feels like singing, which is bad because he's a terrible singer, and all he can do is grin up at Sam who has hands on his hips. "Can you at least pretend to sway back?" Sam scolds.

Steve blushes. Holding Sam like this, his excitement is apparent. 

"You might fly away," Steve mumbles.

"Oh my _God_ ," Sam cries, and his hands are off his hips and cupping Steve's face and kisses, so many heavenly kisses, and also teeth because they keep laughing, and oh, there's his tongue. He's located it. Across Sam's lips.

Sam bucks at him. Steve doesn't budge an inch.

"Steve!!!"

"May we, could we," says Steve, and he sweeps a hand across Sam's back and Sam makes a noise since that leaves him balanced on Steve's other arm. Sam _is_ heavy, but Steve's lifted cars in the heat of battle and he'd like to... he'd love to... "If I don't drop you, can we, like this?"

Sam thrusts against him. "Baby, you're not gonna drop me."

Steve is thrilled.

"You are," Sam predicts, "Gonna drop our pants, because I'm'a hang here while you do all the heavy lifting—"

"Sam," breathes Steve. He can't look away from him, gosh, he's lovestruck, head over heels, he hopes he remembers how pants work.

"That's it, shimmy for me," Sam smiles, delighted. His legs are hugging Steve — his legs are amazing! — and Steve doesn't feel solid anymore, his heart's left the earth. He helps Sam with his clothes, he's touching his sweetheart! He has a sweetheart! And Sam's smile turns wicked and he _moves_ till they both gasp and Steve will never ever forget Sam above him, ecstatic, his grip squeezing Steve like he's going to take off through the ceiling and he's going to carry Steve with him.

They end up propped against the antique bureau, after Steve dropped the lube, and Sam's step meter, and the first condom packet, and lost a shoe but not the other one, so it's all lopsided and they keep rattling the drawers.

Steve doesn't drop him.

Sam doesn't let him go.

*

Steve nearly breaks a rib tumbling out of bed. 

He slept with his head at the footboard, and the rising sun confused him when he woke up. And he left the shield where it landed when it fell off the hook. 

Here he was worried he'd miss out on all the pleasant morning-after aches. Does it count if he's only seeing one star? Gingerly he rolls off the cool vibranium. The sheets tangle up his ankles.

He's just... going to lie here for a second.

Sam appears overhead.

"I made breakfast," Sam says, shaking his head, "if you eat that sort of thing."

*

Natasha is a suspicious soul.

"What is wrong with you?"

Steve feels his eyes get huge. At the speeds of a diving bird of prey, his shoulders take over. They know what to do. They execute this awkward roll that might be a shrug.

"Nothing," he says.

She looks at him.

"I can do more backflips than you," he blurts out.

Natasha is immediately affronted.

"You are on," she grits out through gnashing teeth.

Crashing upside-down into the wall of the SHIELD gym gets rid of his inappropriate erection, sure does.

*

"I reinforced the headboard," says Steve.

"You said you would," says Sam easily, hovering over him like a guardian.

Steve is distracted by his abs. His own abs look painted on, an oversized poster of a Coney Island strongman. Sam's twist all the way around, natural, anchored to his bones, and one day Steve will work up the nerve to ask him to lick them while he's planking. "Uh," says Steve.

Sam patiently waits it out.

And he flexes.

If Steve ever does a self-portrait, he's going to paint two Sam Wilsons, one on each shoulder, both with wings. One guess which kinds. "I've been practicing," he says, with a shaky inhalation, "Hangboarding."

"Go on," says Sam, lifting a brow.

The headboard is American Craftsman style, wood. With a half-inch ledge.

"I make stupid faces when I fuck," spills out of Steve's mouth, and even if Sam is holding it together, somewhere Bucky is planting an elbow into his side. "I mean, later, we can, if you don't mind not doing it face-to-face this time—"

"You're crashing and burning, Steve," says Sam. He plants a kiss on Steve's scrunched-up nose. "Freckles."

"I don't get freckles," Steve whispers. He decides just to show him, and, stretched as he is, manages to gingerly flip over, reaching up for the headboard.

Sam sounds awed as he settles between Steve's thighs. "Can I ride you, baby?" he murmurs into his shoulderblades, awed. Steve nods. As Sam plants feet and hands, and moulds his upper body onto Steve's back, Steve lifts his knees off the bed. Suspending them both like a human safety net. "Oh. Is that how it is," Sam whispers, feather-soft. "We're goin' flying, is that it?"

All their weight is on his fingertips clinging to the edge, and on his toes digging into the mattress. Sam knows how to find his spots, rocks into him hard and deep and perfect. Sam swings his whole world forward, and Steve hangs on for dear life.

*

Riley says he'll Crisco a guardrail if Steve ever, ever hurts Sam.

Steve looks guilty at scrape on Sam's cheek from the brickwork.

"Nah, that's just road rash," says Riley. "I mean _hurt_. Got me, Rogers?"

"Clear," says Steve.

Riley grasps for something that would be a believable threat to a supersoldier. "And when I'm done with you, I'll call his Momma."

Steve cringes.

*

Steve trips over the shield while he's trying to blow a raspberry on Sam's bicep. It's not sexual, or sexy at all, but when Sam catches him things could take a turn for the naked.

"How are you even," Sam laughs. 

"You make me clumsy," murmurs Steve. 

"Anyone try that evil plot on you? Tempt you away with a little booty shake?"

Steve winds his arms around him lightly, in case Sam lifts off the ground. Maybe Steve can hang on. "I... don't think so," he says. "Hydra didn't prioritize sex appeal. And..." He fumbles, thinking of all the SHIELD missions of late. Terrorists. Captain America's the one striking terror in the night, like a hopped up radio drama. It's hard to leave the carefree rooftops where the only bones he'd break are his own, where his flight only connects with air until Sam offers his hand to pull him up.

Sam doesn't say anything. Lets Steve's musings run their course, until he presses a kiss to Steve's lips, and for once they ease into bed (or is this the couch? the armchair? cloud nine?), Steve learning to take the time to kiss sweetly. Even when he was a little headstrong kid, he never dreamed of heaven like this.

When they're half-naked and nearly sated, Steve turns his face to the ceiling like the serum's given him the ability to see through to the sky. If he thought about it real hard, he could calculate the position of the stars directly above. His eye skips over to the glinting version on the shield.

"Red Bull doesn't do anything for me," Steve says.

Sam jerks to a stop, clearly having braced for something more sobering. "...do I even wanna know?"

"I can't do promotions for them, it doesn't work—"

Sam guffaws, flopping on Steve's chest like he knows how to move without grace. "You could keep the color scheme!"

Steve laughs, his heart feeling of wingbeats, "They won't give me _swag_. I can't be hired by them, and besides, everybody knows they're not the ones who gave me wi—"

Warm palms and fingertips that won't be stopped by walls, they circle his head and Sam laughs into the kiss. He heard it, clarion-clear; he always knew the thought was flitting through Steve's mind. He'll be there if Steve runs with it. Steve hangs on.

*

When Steve sprints after the assassin, he catches the shield with a forward flip and a twist, careens off an old vent stack (bending it), lands with his body already charging forward. He sees the assassin drop off the edge. Steve follows, tic-tacs from one sill to another, ducks the manhole cover whizzing at his head, and tackles him from behind.

They skid and scrape along the empty sidewalk.

It won't be empty for long. Guys like this always have a support team, and Steve's on his own. They don't have much time.

Steve has the advantage with the shield, but not for long. This guy is strong, he's got a metal arm to break his falls, and he's nearly silent.

That's an awful lot of eyeblack for the middle of the night.

Steve... improvises.

"If I take a picture of your face, what will happen?" he asks.

"Mission failure," says the assassin. (He seems surprised at the sound of his own voice.)

Good enough. Steve squeezes the camera on, and keeps the shield's rim pressed to the guy's jugular as he rips off the mask.

The assassin goes rigid when the picture is taken. Too loud. Sam rigged the sound with an old-fashioned shutter click. For Steve.

Steve's grip goes slack. "Bucky?"

He nearly slips through the opening, but Steve had spent last week kipping up from flat on his back, fifty times, with a very loose t-shirt, on video. For Sam.

So Steve's on his feet faster, the shield's got some height to build momentum, enough to jam it into the mechanism of the metal arm.

There's a suppressed gasp — _pain_ — but Steve's learned to lean forward, to snatch at open air and hold on. "Bucky," he says. "I've got you. I've got you."

*

Bucky — well, after an offhand comment from Natasha, he's accepted the callsign B.B.'s, to be pronounced Biebs, because he agreed with Maria that Hydra would never believe it, though naturally what Maria had in fact said was 'belieber it' — _Bucky_ approaches Steve on top of the dam. Steve has been calling him Biebs all briefing long, if only to watch the fixed looks of horror on everyone else's face. Steve can picture the look on Sam's face, too, when he tells him. And also: Bucky chose the name. Steve'll be damned if he can't roll with that.

So Bucky approaches, and Steve trusts that this isn't the Winter Soldier cornering him in isolation. They're so high up. But Steve could always jump, and with his strength and reflexes, could probably bounce off the spillway walls all the way down.

He says as much to Bucky.

The blank stare is terrible. And terribly familiar. "You can... do that? That. Isn't in the mission precis. Hydra's."

Steve peers over the edge. Shrugs. "Sure. I'm seeing someone," he admits, because if they're about to die in this coming battle, he can't not tell Bucky, memories intact or not. "He showed me."

Bucky stands close enough to push Steve off. "He. Is not in the precis, either," he offers, and Steve releases a puff of relief, a prayer, his shoulders shaking. Steve turns to Bucky who — yup, is glaring at him with the incredulity that he's allowed close enough to push Steve off the edge. "You cannot. Do that."

"I can too," Steve grins. He makes himself move slow, taking out his phone.

"Pictures," grunts Bucky. "Like you took of me."

Or it didn't happen. It's not clear how many references Bucky gets, or thinks he gets.

"They're decent." Steve loads a file.

"They better be, I am. Not watching. Your sex tape."

Steve opts to laugh at that one. He and Sam are fully clothed but he hopes Bucky can spot the intimacy in every frame. It's not ideal, none of this is, he doesn't know if Bucky recalls how much he staked on Steve finding someone to be happy with, but he's got a taste of freedom and he's going to share. They stand on top of a tall place and Steve shows him the man who taught him how to fall.

"I can. Backflip. Better than you."

"Whatever you say, Biebs."

They debate the weight and subsequent momentum of the metal arm versus the shield.

The view's as good as a city rooftop.

*

At the end of the day, everything is uploaded. Everything goes viral. 

Bucky yells at Steve that jumping into water at that height is like hitting concrete.

Steve gurgles that he's not so good at landings.

*

Once Steve's discharged and he's survived Riley catching him with his pilfered Captain America costume and he confirms that no one he cares about is facing charges, Steve hops the fence into Sam's place.

Sam listens. Sam stares at album in Steve's phone. Sam is stonefaced.

Steve is about to do something crazy like hold his hand when Sam starts to apologize.

"I'm an asshole."

"Sam, no—"

"In the past year, I put up twenty-two Vines. I've got a Facebook. Twitter, a half dozen other social media accounts. My partner and I run a Youtube channel. I'm active on three online forums. I'm a vet, two tours in the desert. I'm a Black man who's been hauled out of the car for traffic stops, five times in my lifetime. And I'm not on that list."

Steve is at a loss.

But Sam's eyes are burning with a righteous determination that Steve thought only existed in Sunday school primers, so Steve shuts the fuck up.

"That's a huge Internet footprint for a guy my age," Sam says. "You said that Hydra algorithm was supposed to pinpoint their enemies. That this dude, this literal Nazi, programmed it. This motherfucker worked with Red Skull."

"Right beside," says Steve.

"And I'm not on his list."

Sam Wilson is not taller or bigger than Steve Rogers, not as he is now. Yet right at this moment, when he stands up, Steve swears he casts no shadows.

"I'm doing something wrong, Steve. If your big bad devil-faced piece of shit, _the guy who almost got you killed_ ," Sam's whole body quivers with barely contained power, "And his rat-bastard lackey who fucked up your friend— if they think I wouldn't stand up to them, then I'm fucking this up, man. This ain't how it's supposed to go."

"Sam," says Steve, with tender resolve. "You served. You got out for a reason."

Sam shakes his head. "My old man had it right after all. Freedom doesn't mean anything if it's not for everyone. I'm no angel. Me and Riley, we were just chasing the next thrill, right? There were a thousand times when I could've lost my wingman. Me and Riles, you know? Ride or die." He reaches out, catches Steve's hand — and Steve knows he's thinking of Bucky, and he hangs on like he's a brick wall, three stories up, and Sam's voice falls to a whisper — "What if it had been him? Or me? We went in to help people. That shouldn't have stopped when we got out. Riley, he's moving on. Finishing his degree, finding ways."

"Mad at him for leaving," guesses Steve. And he doesn't have to say _I was mad at Bucky, too_ , because Sam's wrong, he's a mid-air miracle, he reels him in like gravity so Steve won't have to say another word.

They hold each other for a minute. Top of the arc, less than a held breath, when physics gives up and anything is possible.

For that one shining moment, Steve is so incredibly thankful for Sam, for this beautiful daring awesome man in his life.

Then he looks down at their joined hands.

Steve can't help but recall the one catch he didn't make.

And he realizes that Sam can't read minds, and Steve is his sweetheart too. He can't miss this chance.

"Sam," says Steve. "Video doesn't exist of me and Bucky."

Sam blinks. "There's those... newsreels, though, right?"

"Sure, a few staged shots, stuff like that." Steve traces the outline of a feather on the back of Sam's hand. "At the worst of economic downturn... ours, that 'great' one. A few photographers went around the tenements documenting conditions. Which were pretty bad. I'm sure they meant w— Anyway, sometimes they'd stick their heads in, and snap a picture. Wouldn't even knock, because you left your door unlocked if you didn't want the addicts to think you had valuables. Just a flash, then they pulled a runner."

"Damn."

"That's all that's left of the neighborhood where we grew up. Flash in the pan. The pictures are part of the story, but..." Steve gets dizzy looking at his life from this perspective. "No one knows what we did. Not really. Heck, I bet Buck got mixed up in stuff I didn't know about, and definitely vice versa—" Sam snorts. "—and we lived in each other's pockets for a while. History didn't capture who we are. All that's left is was whatever was in front of the camera at the time. Sam, I promise you: we weren't angels either."

Sam is in slow motion as he rocks back, and forward. He gets it, Steve can tell. They were soldiers. In a war.

Nobody gets out with clean hands.

"The internet, social media. It's the same thing, only faster." When Steve lifts his arm, Sam nestles under it, and they tuck into each other. Steve says, "Motherfucking Nazi doesn't know who you are, Sam."

Sam... laughs. A tiny laugh. "Guess that's one for the good column."

"You better believe it," says Steve sturdily.

Sam's looking at Steve like he wants to sweep him off his feet. "Did you make that up on the spot?"

Steve can feel his ears turning red. "Was that all right?"

"You're cute when you get your speech on. You and your boy gonna get around to sharing some of these less savory stories?" Sam noses Steve's cheekbone.

Steve steals a kiss. "When he remembers more."

"Sorry..." A wince.

"In the meantime," Steve says quickly, "When are you and Riley going to get into what happened at the pizza place in Bagram?"

"There better not be video of that."

"I know of a few spies who could flush that—"

"Fuck you," says Sam fondly. They stare at each other like a couple of saps. Sam sighs, and Steve starts to kiss a circlet around his neat hairline. "I'm signing up for therapy sessions at the VA. The free groups. I'll... take a run up, see if I need more than that. Get some ground under me." Sam wavers, then nudges his stubble across Steve's jaw. "Not to push it, but maybe you should think about it, too."

It's a leap. Steve knows how to take those. "Okay," he says. He strokes Sam's back, between the shoulderblades. "For what it's worth, I don't think you should stop..."

"Running?"

"Flying."

*

"Could you do me a favor?" Sam asks Nat. Because of course he's charmed her in ten seconds flat. "Fort Mead."

"What's there?" says Natasha.

"Audition tape," says Sam, and for whatever reason she treats it like a pleasant detour before she rains holy terror on Congress. When Steve watches the recording, balanced barefoot atop Tony Stark's structurally sound couchback, listening to the team's oohs and aahs? He agrees it's more than worth it, he'd pull a backflip if he didn't think he'd smash into a robot, he's that damn proud.

That is, until he finds out Sam compensated Natasha with a preview file of Captain America: 50 Greatest Fails.

("You _asshole_. Natasha!?" 

"Baby, don't be that way. I'll catch your face before it hits the ground." 

"I know you will, angel. You like my face. Hey, guess who sets the Avengers' training schedule—"

"Steve! Don't you do it! My arms are still sore from last night! Come back here!")

*

He doesn't change the training schedule. He inadvertently hollers, "Do it for the Vine!" and nearly fumbles the camera when Sam sprains his ankle laughing. 

All the footage goes viral. Blurry cellphone shots included.

It's weeks before Steve can make it up to Sam properly, even with Bucky and Natasha chiming in with the suggestions.

(Steve saves all the footage and sets up an alert for the hashtag.)

*

_"Hello, is this, uhm, the marketing and publicity team? Do you take on interns for your livestream? Ah. Okay. That's understandable. What if the candidate had their own insurance, and experience with motorcycles, small aircraft, and jumps? Er, all of it? Rapelling, bungee, freefall... I recertified in high-altitude parachuting... I'm decent at base jumps. I have advanced field medic training, too, if that helps. Between jobs, I mean, yes, I can clear my schedule for anything that's not world-ending. Of course. Let me send you a link. I promise it's not altered, I can barely splice a video together, which is why I'm interested—"_

*

Steve has a new bathroom. It doesn't have a window, but it's lit by a solar tube in the ceiling, and it's got in-floor heating, a rack for air-drying laundry, and a pair of sinks. With two toothbrushes.

...and four toilet seat prototypes later, a lid that can stand a grown man jumping on it and riding it closed. (Steve's hipbone heals in a day.)

*

And if anyone asks about the occasional swathe of friction burns, they smile at each other and say: 

"Parkour."

**Author's Note:**

> This flew under the year-end wire with the fortunate 14th guest landing one of my fastest to 50 kudos! Love bounces back to you!
> 
> ....::!£%\/€!::...  
> We interrupt your average Avengers fan experience for a reminder to read [Natalie Jones and the Stone Knight](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13827756/chapters/31801308) _by ironychan_. I don't know them but you should. You haven't read it lately. Love yourself. Don't deprive yourself.


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